


To A River’s End

by billspilledquill



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Mozart! - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 15:43:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15952451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: At that moment, Colloredo has met Death.





	To A River’s End

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [长河尽头 Das Ende des Flußes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259572) by [Asaki_Kiri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asaki_Kiri/pseuds/Asaki_Kiri). 



  **— — No one has ever asked him this question before.**  
**He asked: “Do you love me?”**

 

With his back against the cold wall in the piano chamber, the man let out a long sigh.

He held still, this violin was as dear as life itself– but he found that he can’t even interpret a single note from it. He refused to believe that it was because of some lack of practice: ever since leaving Salzburg, he couldn’t bring himself to shrine over any of his talents. Even so, it is not as if he didn’t noticed it, when holding with his right hand the bow of the instrument, there was unmistakably a slight tremble. It was also not a coincidence, for that his shoulder, the one that carried music, became as heavy as lead.

Maybe it’s time, he thought for a moment, maybe that’s god’s will: he was sure for one; that these are Death’s heavy footsteps, coming hither.

Hieronymus von Colloredo reached his three years in Vienna. He abandoned his secular authority over Salzburg. From that moment on, he was certain that Vienna would be his resting place instead. As for the Salzburg he left behind, the memories about it are so very scattered, so scattered, in fact, that the only matters he took from it were few manuscripts, a violin, and some other necessities.

Even as time fades, there was still something his mind didn’t dare to forget: that before his death, he couldn’t even see, not even for a last glance, his pastoral.

But Vienna is not terrible, he thought, this city is still surrounded in all parts with Mozart’s phantoms— some of them seemed distant, others looked like him but cannot be equaled as such— if Death hadn’t come to him with such pressing steps, Vienna would be still quite descent. He wasn’t pleased with denying that he did went to see some of the latest productions of _The Magic Flute_ , but without Mozart directing behind and beyond the stage, it always seemed to lack something.

He put the violin back into its container, and with rosined fingers dusting his old, but clean robe, he sank down to the only chair in the room. The candle is still alight, the cross before his chest glowing a little before it. He clutched it, tried to control his breathing. He knew that it was ridiculous, but he still nodded toward the empty place, toward the door: “I think you can come in, now.”

That was stubbornness left in the archbishop of Salzburg. No one can step in his territory without explicit granted permission. He tried hard to ignore the abnormal feeling deep in his heart, refuse to reconcile with the fact that someone did that too, and not only once.

Death walked slowly out from the shadows. Colloredo thought he was glancing at his own reflection: the person in front of him is undoubtedly Death.

But he owned the same exact features from the archbishop, those unique tilts, he wore the same stripes, but black with no cross. His lips curled curiously enough, between cruelty and numbness. Death began to talk, although his tone less cold than Colloredo had anticipated:

“And to say I thought you wouldn’t summon me tonight.”

“If god would do so, then I have no right to refuse you.” He straightened himself, rigid as if he was speaking to the people, declaring, “My will bears no importance.”

“Perhaps.” Death nodded, “But I can feel this: you are still denying yourself exactly that.”

“I would gladly hear about it.”

“You are still refusing death. Refusing me. That’s why I can’t take you away,” he said. “When you want to gain something over death, that’s when you most distain it.”

“I don’t see any correlation between these two matters.” He thought a bit, gestured the stool near him. He wasn’t prepared when Death did indeed sat there.

Death, to no one’s surprise, refused him. “I don’t need some mere mortal’s pity, besides, I can feel your unwillingness. But I don’t think you would deny yourself a few words of conversation.”

“That I have no means to refuse.” He let out a sigh, “My preachings never told me the necessary courtesy to talk to you. So, as you claim, what do I want from death? Answers to these questions are unclear even to me.”

“What you want is surely only meaningful before death.”

“Then with what you say, I now do not desire for death.” He said simply, “so why are you in front of me?”

“That’s because you are demanding me. Or, demanding him.”

“Him?”

“Music.” Death smiled. “I have said earlier, what you deny to yourself, you desire it.”

“I desire music, but I don’t wish for death.”

“I very much agree.” Death said with some sympathy for a moment, “But your music now belongs to death.”

“ _My music_.” He turned this sentence over and over, the violin’s rosin still afloat in the air, “Even you are calling something that never was mine so. But see, the truth is, I never owned it. Sometimes strange thoughts bugler my mind, if I never was Salzburg’s great archbishop, then it might be possible.”

There existed a strange kind of chemistry, him and Death. Who knows where this conversation will lead with this absurd subject, but no one raised a protest anyway. There’s nothing he needed to hide from Death, and Death from him. They both saw that name rising from between the words, and what it represented, and then maliciously replaced it with another. But he didn’t want lose from his position yet, not right away.

He is waiting for Death to say his name first.

“Conscience has already told you– all these pretensions end before your last days,” he laughed, cold. “I would think you would at least understand this. Whoever– you or the archbishop of Salzburg, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is destined to be the world’s greatest musician, a special place in the hall of it—and your place is in his life is not so— at least it is what I think.”

He won this part, but there is not a bit of joy rejoicing in it.

“But for me, he is _unique_. Father gifted me this uniqueness,” he said, word by word. “And now, Father made him belong to death.”

Death hadn’t want to continue the subject, but since some names were uttered, then everything related to them had lost its need for secrecy: “Leopold thought that god gave him such a child was to compensate for his years of straying and poverty, thought his son would achieve glory, that he would be in turn.”

“So when I chase him– _them_ away from Salzburg, that was the reason for his disappointment.”

“What do you think Mozart want? You know him— not that old man, of course, you would know what Leopold want better than me.”

“I don’t.”

“You really never dwelled on the question?”

“Perhaps.” He replies, mumbling a little, “Maybe it was too late when I decided to do so.”

“If you had only perceived him as a servant, then you wouldn’t, naturally.”

“.....But I could at least guess.” He tries to find an adequate excuse, “you are right, perhaps, that musicians are as many as sand, but he was extraordinary. The realization came in too late. Now to think of it, he often told me that ‘in my eyes, I am just like you– just as imperial’. What I accepted then, was solely his music.”

“I would think that these Viennese would understand his music, sometimes. At least Vienna didn’t see Mozart as his domestic.” Death rose one eyebrow.

He suddenly laughed: “They said he glistens like gold.”

“You don’t like them for comparing gold with that musician of Salzburg.” Death said, knowing. “You are frowning. What’s so wrong about gold? It shines through, a precious thing, one that never decompose. A few would sell their soul to me for gold.”

“Just like I dislike them using Viennese stars for similes. Music cannot be leveled with coins, neither something to be tagged as such.” His mouth opened, a heavy calm settling between his sentences. “If, in their eyes, Wolfgang’s talent would be as easy to acquire as gold– plain and tradable– then all the music he had composed would be nothing more than some mere waves in seas, repeating and singular.”

“You don’t like my comparison. You only think I don’t understand his music. You are confident that I believe his talents can be brought.”

“I never said that.”

“You are not a very good liar. Just like you believe that everyone knows your hatred for Mozart. You even call him Wolfgang, in fact.”

“I never did that when he was alive.” He quietly shied away from Death’s mocking smile. “I tried to help him, even so. He refused me. I didn’t understand back then, maybe I still don’t.”

“He didn’t need your lone applause. He didn’t even lack helping hands from people like you.”

“He does,” he interrupted rudely, it didn’t seem too hard, “Vienna’s rich society hates anything that ages– – he could be a genius, but as long as he lives, as long as he composed, Vienna would one day be bored. That was when I decided he needed my help.”

“Of course, you know Vienna.”

He gave him a smile: “It was my homeland, after all.”

“Even so, you can’t call yourself all-knowing.”

He silently let him to go on, because he can’t find anything to retort with, “You know what kind of music Vienna needs. But you never once knew what he wants. What you wanted from him– maybe it was the same as Leopold’s.”

“You could very well call it stupid.” He stood, springing, took from the corner of the room a black leathered box, the one that never left him.

He and Death both know what it contained. He opened it: there was a few yellowed and crisped parchments.

He continued: “But when I left Salzburg, I didn’t forget to bring them.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” Death answered, “I also wouldn’t call it stupid. You just declared your dislike to Vienna’s comparison, but I have another suggestion—maybe it’s you who told me.”

“What?” He lifted him to stare at Death, but Death had turned his gaze sideways.

“I think you would like this: Wolfgang is an unique mineral—crystal. A God’s blessing.” Death said, “Grown in the wild, exceptionally complete, never became the crystal torch you wanted him to be, but he still shone toward you in an undeniable way, lightening yours.”

He listened quietly.

“No one cared what he wants, everyone tries to own a piece of it. He is conflicted, doesn’t know how to give, what to give, unsure if he would received the same in return, and thus break in the process.”

He knew what Death will say next, and in a moment of exasperation, Colloredo uttered the answer himself: “These broken pieces would hurt those who overreach them. Every mortal turned his hymn to curse. When he finally disappeared, they picked and pinned the pieces back, let them mar with pride, say that there– here was an unparalleled genius.”

“Just as the benevolent Father, there is also Death’s cruelty. They are inseparable; grandeur and plainness, the mortal and the eternal, decay and birth.”

“There is so many mediocrity, and only one who is not.” He said unhesitatingly, “Genius doesn’t need mediocrity to live, but it needs him to survive.”

“You are wrong.” Death’s voice was mixed with shadows, “If mortals don’t admire him, then he is destined to lose himself in the treads of time.”

“....But most of the time they only use their entitlement to hurt what was god’s gift, if it weren’t for their opposition, he would have shone right away.”

“You sure know a lot about this.”

“I belong to that kind of people—I have no right to glimpse at genius: only to leave dark wounds in their lives—but.”

“But?”

“But you have a point.” He thought, and some more, “Even if I can only glance from his feet, it also means that the distance between he and I isn’t as far as I have first suspected.”

“Even that isn’t near distance. Like from heaven to hell.” Death said conversely, “But to think of it, it was because I have brought him away so many years ago, and now it had taken away your distance from him.”

“Everything belongs to death.”

“Parchment is, by nature, dead.” The spirit looked at the scattered papers beside him, on those were similar notes of music, as they both know so well; but Death didn’t concerned himself with their content, “If no one can read compositions, then they are dead from the beginning.”

“I sometimes think that even the piano is soulless.” He caressed the long neglected instrument, a thick layer of dust on it,

“But surprisingly, music is always alive.”

“Music is eternal.” Death nodded, “And yet you can’t deny this: I am also eternal.”

“You mean death?”

“Usually we mean rebirth. Only when old matters die on, new elements can then possibly have a chance for a break, to breathe.”

“So is music. Even if I don’t relent it as my passion: but he had proved me exactly this: good music shouldn’t be trapped to oblivion and status quo, or else the people would have long forgotten it.”

“You could think like that all you want, you and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart were meant to engage in different paths.” Death nodded slowly. “He is music’s prodigy, even if you and him had strikingly alike opinions, he had already surpassed you. He belongs to the new world, to the praise coming from the future. He and his music will both make it to the years to come while you are the zest and damp corpse of the past, you will rest within the margins of history, decaying as it moves on.”

“As you said,” he somehow laughed, soft, “nothing can be separated from each other.”

“I once commissioned him a _Requiem_. I knew that he couldn’t finish it.” Death said suddenly, “But he and I both know exactly for whom this _Requiem_ was for. I wanted him to know that some things are simply written that way, that they were meant to be.”

“Süssmayr completed it wonderfully.” He ignored Death’s inquiry, trying to make him speak of something, that this Requiem was Mozart’s declarative death to the public, or that he had appointed this melody as his own funeral, “I am just surprised, even Death wants something from him.”

“The Webers wanted his fortune. Vienna gobbled in his work and talent. His father wished from him a good reputation. His wife desired his grand and passionate affection. The Emperor seemingly admired his music, but he never understand it. Then you, Hieronymus Colloredo, what do you want from him?”

“Music,” he said unapologetically.

“But Wolfgang is not a gold feathered sparrow, he never sings in a cage, not even in a golden one, full of soft cloth and stored food— maybe there are also drafts and ink?— even then it would be a helpless cause.”

“I never wished to own a golden sparrow.”

“You wouldn’t give him too much liberty. You know, for his survival, that it is his light and water.”

“Perhaps I was wrong about this.” He said, deep in thought, “But I couldn’t bear the mind of him belonging to another. Anyone. Cities, even. He is Salzburg’s prodigy, he shouldn’t stray outside. He had been to Paris, Mannheim, Vienna, he will only be erased in the town’s history, a passenger leaving no trace whatsoever. He is destined to survive in Salzburg, becoming Salzburg’s cherished glory.”

“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart can’t possibly be owned by anyone. Both he and his music. Even Salzburg doesn’t belong to you anymore.” Death stared at him, “I won’t believe that you don’t know this.”

“Understanding is one thing.”

“Accepting is another.” Death replied easily. “What you want from him isn’t music.”

“Then what is it?”

Death opened his mouth, a cruel line forming his lips, he wasn’t going to give him any chance to hide: “What you want from him and his music, is love.”

He stayed silent, was for so long that he thought that Death would turn away and leave— or ending their conversation, give him a cold and dead kiss. But he didn’t. Death was simply looking at him quietly still, that similar orbs almost looked as if they were pitying him.

He finally broke that incessantly long silence, his patience was wasted, gridded off by Death: it was not uncommon. Or he simply thought all this talking had already lost its meaning, it was useless to continue it.

“Time’s up. I permit you to give me that Death’s kiss.”

He so declared.

Death nodded. He suddenly remembered something, clutching his cross tighter.

“I have one last question.”

Death silently acquiesced.

“You said that you loved music.”

“God love all His creatures, you know this better than I do.” Death looked at him, his tone was mild. “But that’s not what you want to ask.”

“If He really loved music, then why summon him so soon? To let you, or Death, to take him away?”

“I think you have misunderstood.” Death pondered for a moment, “I didn’t take him away, he never belonged here.”

“Power cannot restrain god’s spirit.” He sighed.

“Mortals cannot restrain His Father’s gift.” Death did the same, “That never stop them.”  
“Then I can view his death as god’s punishment?”

“Perhaps. I won’t say it’s stupid.” Death said nonchalantly, “Look around you for one last time, Hieronymus Colloredo. After that you will accept my kiss.”

“I think you may permit me to throw one last glance at Salzburg.” He said, “Even if it belongs to me no more. It was his homeland.”

He couldn’t know if Death would refuse or not. But he knew, that for the creature in front of him, Death was just like him; unable to refuse music. Unable to refuse Mozart.

“A ludicrous demand. But I won’t say no.”

He looked at that violin on his wall. Closed his eyes.

For a moment his mind was filled with music. Not the one which even he can tell the mediocrity, those bored and deflected notes of his own serenade, but Mozart’s, the first time he called him, the scattered manuscripts that he left behind— Mozart’s serenade. This sheet now lied in his hand, those yellowed papers shattered along the years, crisp. He never gave them to a publisher— as early as Mozart’s journey to Paris, he had already ordered numerous copies from court musicians. Mozart never wished to bargain for that manuscript, Colloredo then have never felt the need to return it.

“Music exclusive from the heavens.” Someone said to him before.

And now he thought— or long, long time ago—that wasn’t a lie.

As if death was on time, he felt like he had finished a lifelong prayer. Now that it was over, he prayed to god for all his sins. Hidden secrets, regret after excoriating himself from years of denial and disavowal.

After that he would belong to death. To silence. Death blew off his fire as simply would a maid blew off her candle.

Death walked closer. He could feel Death’s cold breath on his. He was waiting for the fall out of the kiss as much as he was waiting for god’s final judgment to his sins.

Then he woke up from his dream. His right hand still holding close Mozart’s violin: that name swirling around, incapacitated. He couldn’t bring it to his lips. The violin’s bow had disappeared. The maid stood obediently at the door, on the plate she was holding was a candle, soon to be extinguished. She made a half-panicked bow to him, afraid.

He stood from the cold brisk floor, Vienna’s first sunrise splattered on the heavy dusted piano beside him.

He looked around, made sure that he had only accidentally stayed here for the night. The air soon lost the night’s bone pickling cold, back to a slightly golden warmth. And then he saw the mirror.

That was where Death had first stood, had smiled and ripped his wound apart, now it was only a common mirror that you can find everywhere in Vienna. He reached out, the coldness of his touch felt like a wordless scorn.

Hieronymus von Colloredo let his head fall at this moment, swift.

“Wolfgang,” he said with some difficulty, word by word. From the instant Death had left, that name was caught between his tongue, impossible to get out.

He said: “Wolfgang.”

　　  
　　

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some translation notes: 
> 
> • I am Alfred Douglas translating Wilde’s _Solomé_. This is more or less one percent glory from the original. 
> 
> • Madarin, like many languages, has specific plural “you”. I didn’t want to use thou or thee during the transcript, but the first sentence: “Do you love me?” is indeed a plural one. I thought it may be worth mentioning. 
> 
> • For many instances, I had problem converting Mandarin’s “priest” in its proper meaning (His Father, God or Holy spirit? It is a mystery.) Many religious similies are therefore butchered. 
> 
> • The italics are mine, as well as the mistakes. 
> 
> • Colloredo needs a break. Someone give this poor man a hug.


End file.
